Bother
by FinalMoondragon
Summary: Haymitch's POV, based on the song "Bother" by Stone Sour. Haymitch/Katniss. He's failed everyone who ever counted on him. He can't fail her too. She has to survive, even if it isn't for him. One-shot.


**A/N: So this is my first ever posted fanfic. Little nervous. Hope you all like it. I wrote this last night, because I was listening to the song "Bother" by Stonesour and it just seemed so perfect for Haymitch. So I started writing and this is what came out. If you don't ship Katniss/Haymitch, you might want to avoid it. Please be nice! R &R!  
It's not exactly canon (obviously with the Haymiss theme), I tweaked a few details to suit my story.  
I do not own "The Hunger Games" or the song "Bother".  
This is a one shot, just the scenes that played out in my head while listening to the song.  
**

 **Bother**

 _"Wish I was too dead to cry  
My self-affliction fades  
Stones to throw at my creator  
Masochists to which I cater…"_

Haymitch sat slumped in his chair, half empty glass of clear liquor sloshing dangerously close to the rim as his hand fell off the hideously flower printed armrest. He stared at the large TV screen, unseeing as the Capital ran a rerun of the reaping ceremony. He'd seen it a million times. The dead eyed stares as families waited with baited breaths, praying their child, their brother, their sister, themselves, were not chosen. He'd seen the breaths of relief when someone else's name was called, someone who wasn't them, someone who they could say goodbye to and then sleep sound in the knowledge that they were safe until the following year.

He'd seen the little girl, petrified with terror as her name was called. She was only stirred out of her stunned silence when a scream had pierced the air. He wasn't sure if it was the memory of the scream, or if the television was playing it once more, but he could hear it as if it was happening again. It gave him chills. The older girl, the one with steel in her eyes, had screamed, had fought her way to the front. She had yelled the words that sealed her fate. The words that condemned him to watch her die. Just like the others.

He blearily focused on the screen. The girl was screaming again. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" The glass smashed against the wall, sending a spray of liquor and ice across the replay.

"Stupid." He muttered – half at the girl, half at himself for wasting good liquor. He lurched forward out of the chair and staggered towards the door of his compartment. He avoided looking out the window. The swift blur of motion made him want to hurl. His yearly train ride to the Capital was something he could have done without.  
He swore under his breath, a string of half intelligible curses that he wished he could scream in Snows' face. He wouldn't do it again. He wouldn't watch as his kids were butchered for entertainment. Maybe this time he would just say "Fuck You." Right to Snows' snake smile, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be put out of his misery for it. That was the best he could hope for really. If they put him down before the games even started, at least he wouldn't have to see himself fail again.

How was he any better than those capital bastards now? Smiling, waving for the cameras, pretending his tributes – his kids – stood a chance as he sent them into a slaughterhouse. Shaking hands, selling them for sponsors that wouldn't do any good anyways. They all died in the end. Or if they were lucky, in the beginning.  
He ricocheted off the wall as he lost his balance, flinging a hand out to catch himself on the venetian blinds. A satisfying metallic crunch and rattle told him that he'd broken them with his grip. Steadying himself, he continued, hopefully towards the bar car. He couldn't remember for certain which direction it was. He'd started drinking long before he was escorted on board.

The door whooshed open automatically as he approached, and he found three sets of eyes staring back at him. Fantastic. Wrong car. He scanned the compartment anyways, and was relieved to see a glass bottle neatly arranged with a set of delicate glasses. He ignored the stares as he made a beeline for the cart. It was only after he had poured himself a fresh glass and taken a deep drink, that he realized Effie had been speaking. To him or about him he wasn't sure. It didn't matter really. He tried to tune her out most of the time. She meant well, but she was clueless. Entirely wrapped up in the excitement, the parties, the glamour. He eyed her over his drink as she touched her pink curls with one hand and smiled, as though trying to encourage the tributes to be excited. He supposed it could just be her way of coping. Personally, he thought liquor left a better taste in his mouth than Capital fed bullshit.

He lowered his glass with a satisfied sigh, finally turning his attention to the boy and the girl. What were their names? He couldn't remember. He made it a habit not to get too attached, but this was a new low for him. He stared at the girl and she stared right back, unimpressed, eyes hard, face blank. Her dark hair fell over her shoulder in a long braid, her nails tapped the wooden armrest – the only outward sign of her annoyance. This had to be the last year she was even eligible to be chosen. She would have been safe. Why would she do this to herself?

He smirked at her, raising his glass in a toast. "Cheers Sweetheart."

She scowled at him. "My name is Katniss. I'm not your sweetheart."

"My mistake." He grinned and took a drink.

" _You don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther,  
But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds…"_

What the hell was he thinking? He was getting attached. The exact thing he swore to never do again. Stupid to think she stood a chance. Stupid to hope. Stupid to think the fire and steel in her eyes would be enough to pull her through to the end.  
"Any last advice?" She asked, and he could hear the slight tremor in her voice as she looked to him for strength. Strength that he just didn't have to give. Strength that she needed.

He forced a smile. "Stay alive."

It was too much to hope for that she would. His mouth felt like cotton, and his tongue stuck to his cheeks. The pain in his head shifted from a dull ache to a sharp, piercing knife in his temple. He needed a drink. He pushed down the craving. She deserved that much from him. He had nothing else to offer her. He started to walk away.

"Haymitch, wait."

Without warning she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Caught off guard he froze, her uncharacteristic display of affection rendering him speechless. None of his tributes had ever hugged him. None had ever gotten to him like she had, with her sarcastic words, and quiet determination. She challenged every word out of his mouth, forced him to prove himself to her. He thought of the moment she had stabbed the table, narrowly missing his fingers. He had been a goner in that instant. It had gone downhill from there. Every argument, every glare, every flash of a smile, so rare and unexpected, all served to pull him down. He didn't want to like her. She was too much like himself, and he hated himself. And yet.

He allowed himself to fold his arms around her, squeezing tight. She had to come back. If anyone ever stood half a chance, it was her. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo. He hated the smell of the Capital, only he found himself memorizing the scent, in case it was the last time. Too soon, she pulled away.  
He tried to smile, lightly touching her face, "Stay alive Sweetheart."

"I'm not your sweetheart." She reminded him, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of her mouth before she was led away.

He watched her go, chest tight. He waited until she was out of sight before he said softly, "I know."

 _"Wish I was too dead to care  
If indeed I cared at all  
Never had a voice to protest  
So you fed me shit to digest  
I wish I had a reason, my flaws are open season  
For this, I gave up trying  
One good turn deserves my dying"_

He didn't want to watch. He didn't want to care. He couldn't watch her die. Sponsors wouldn't be able to save her from the bloodbath. All it would take was one well-placed swing of a sword; a knife flying through the air, too fast to stop; an arrow from the bow that was meant to be hers. All it would take was one misstep. She would be gone. He would have failed another one.

There was nothing he could say or do now. No one would listen anyways. She was on her own. Maybe she was better off that way. He was too damaged to be any use to her. His last words seemed so foolish now. _Stay Alive_. As if those words could save her.

He should have tried harder. He had given up so long ago that he couldn't remember when it happened. It had taken him too long to realize that she actually stood a chance. He was too late. Again. Why was he even a mentor? District 12 hadn't had a winner since he had made the mistake of surviving. He was useless. Not cut out for the grim task of raising children for the slaughter. He was kept around because there was no one else. Maybe if she won, he would finally be free. Either by Snows' hand or his own liquor filled grip. One way or another, it had to end. He couldn't do it again if he lost her.

Still, he watched. He couldn't look away if he tried. And she survived. The bloodbath. The forest fire. The careers.

With each escape he found his hope growing. As much as he despised himself for it. He couldn't turn his back like he had done before. Couldn't close his eyes, and drink his way to the end. He couldn't say "Fuck You" to the Capital, and wait for the finishing blow to fall, ending his years of suffering. He did the thing he hated. He smiled, he stayed sober, he won sponsors for her, convinced them that she really could win this. Convinced himself that she would come back. He sent her gifts. Something he had never bothered to do before. And she survived. She was coming home.

 _"You don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther  
But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds."  
_

She was alive. She was home. That was enough for him. At least that was what he told himself every night as he sagged into his sunken sofa cushions. His boots propped up on the battered, bottle covered coffee table. A more accurate label would be liquor table. Who was he kidding? It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Her eyes were filled with the same shadows that haunted his. Sometimes, in the dead of night, if he wasn't passed out drunk on the floor, he could hear her screams from across the street. Each time he jumped up, as if to run out the door barefoot in the snow. Each time he caught himself. She didn't need him. She had the boy. She had her family. She didn't need an old drunk.

He told himself that each time she appeared in his living room, each time she dragged him off the floor, forced him to eat a hot meal. Each time she sat alone with him in the dark, steel grey eyes fixed, unblinking at the fire she inevitably built in his fireplace. He told her to go away, every time she took the bottle from his hand. Called her sweetheart just to hear her say the words.

"I'm not your sweetheart."

The sharp sting was enough to remind him of his place. He didn't know why she bothered with him. Some imagined debt, like she had with the boy. He saved her life. She saved his. What had he done to warrant her attention? The visits that became a nightly routine. They rarely spoke. Both lost in the dark, remembering the unspeakable things they had done to survive. Why did she come at all?

Sometimes she took the bottles from him and dumped them down the drain, fearless of the way he shouted, unflinching when he would back her against the wall, punching the drywall until it crumbled. Other times, she took the bottle and curled by his side, drinking with him until she passed out and the glass clinked to the floor.  
Whenever he woke to find her curled beside him he put as much distance as he could between them. He'd wake her up, calling from a chair opposite her.

"Rise and shine sweetheart."

Always, her words followed. "I'm not your sweetheart." Then she would be gone, until the sun set again. As if making sure he was alive was the only purpose she had anymore.

Time was meaningless. As always. Days and nights blurred together, and months passed. The same fights, different bottles.

Until the night came that Snow made the announcement. Their silence broke as she collapsed to the floor, terror making her eyes shine too bright as she sobbed. His angry shout had not been directed at her for once. He threw every bottle within reach at the screen. But it changed nothing. Snow smiled, as if he knew Haymitch was watching. He had found one more thing to take from him.

She couldn't go back. He couldn't let her go. He wouldn't survive it.

 _"Wish I'd died, instead of lived  
A zombie hides my face  
Shell forgotten with its memories  
Diaries left with cryptic entries"  
_

For the first time in his life, he prayed that his name was called. It was he who had the dead stare he'd watched so many times as he waited. As Effie needlessly read out her name. There was no one else. No one to volunteer for her. She stood still, her face stony, if only to hide her terror.

Then she said it, "Haymitch Abernathy."

He moved forward but the boy cut him off, "I Volunteer."

It took every ounce of strength not to strangle the boy on the spot. _He_ was supposed to go with her. He had to make sure she survived, even if he didn't. She shot him a look. Apology? Guilt? What had she done? He saw the guilty determination on the boys' face and understood. She had made him promise to take his place if his name was called. Why? He wanted to rage at her, push her against the wall and demand to know why she had taken his chance to end it all, taken his chance to save her and free himself from the hell he called a life.

But he never got the chance. The peacekeepers dragged her away, and her calm was shattered as she yelled his name. The sound was a knife in his heart, and he was moving before he even knew it. He didn't reach her in time. She was gone and he was surrounded.

He was never there when she needed him. Why had he never run to her when she screamed from nightmares? Why had he pushed her away every chance he got? He had failed her again somehow. She had chosen to save him, for reasons he could not fathom. He was not worth it, certainly not worth the life of the boy.  
He'd get her out somehow. It was purely selfish. He knew it. She deserved better than him. She deserved the boy – too kind hearted for his own good. She deserved to be safe. But he needed her. Somewhere along the way, she had lodged herself in his shell of a heart, and he didn't want to live without her.

 _"And you don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping farther  
But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds"_

It was foolish. He probably wouldn't survive it. In fact, he didn't really plan on it. As long as she got out. That was all he needed to know before he went to his death. It was a suicide mission. She'd hate him for it. Especially after she had gone behind his back to make sure he stayed out of the arena. He was just going to have to disappoint her again. If either of them deserved to live out their life in peace, it was certainly her.

He had screamed at her when they were reunited. But she was resolute as ever. She faced him, fearlessly, just as she did every night. Safe in the knowledge that he would never lay a hand on her. He would die before he hurt her. Somewhere along the way she had realized that. Now she used it against him. Offering no explanation for her actions, letting him go round and round in his head, tearing it apart trying to understand why she would choose to save him over the boy.

Again, he went through the motions for her. Win over the sponsors. Arrange allies for her. Send her gifts. Smile. Wave. Keep his head down and don't let anyone suspect his betrayal.

Until she forced his hand. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. She wasn't supposed to fire that arrow. She wasn't supposed to get caught in the blast, she wasn't supposed to get hurt. The boy wasn't supposed to be taken.

Now she was screaming at him. As if he didn't already hate himself enough. Again, he had failed. Her hand stung his cheek as she fought him. It took all of his strength to hold her back. It was useless to apologize. Honestly, selfishly, he wasn't sorry. She was safe. She was the only thing that mattered. The boy would have been better off to die in the arena than to be taken. Guilt for his inevitable torture dragged him down. But she was safe. She might hate him, but she was safe. That was all he ever wanted.

He wasn't supposed to save her. Wasn't supposed to be here. The boy had agreed to die in his place. A quick, painless death. She raged at him. Now the boy would be tormented, destroyed, rather than find peace. Because he had tried to save her.  
She couldn't save them both. He had yelled back at her. She should have known the moment she convinced the boy to take his place. She should have known, nothing was promised in the arena.

"I'd let the boy go a thousand times if it meant saving you, sweetheart."

"I will never be your sweetheart!"

As if he didn't know.

 _"You don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
I'll keep slipping further  
But once I hold on,  
I'll never live down my deceit." _

The sun was too hot on his face. Too bright for eyes accustomed to his dark liquor den. She had appeared at dawn. Dragging him from his comatose state, kicking empty bottles out of her way until they reached the front door. She had forced him to walk with her, holding him up more often than not, until they reached the meadow, finally regrown and alive, masking the mass graves below the surface.

He had collapsed against a tree, glaring up at the sun as it followed its predestined path across the sky. He had avoided this place. There was no reason that he should still be alive, when so many who deserved to live were gone. Including the ones who had trusted him, the ones allied to save the girl, most of them were gone too. Maybe life was his punishment for letting them down.

She didn't say a word to him, even when her hand found his. Somewhere along the way she had forgiven him for saving her. Forgiven him for what the boy endured until he too was saved. Somewhere along the way, she decided he was still worth knowing. He couldn't imagine why.

Something had changed. No. Everything had changed. The Capital had fallen. The Games were over. She was finally free to choose her own path. He had assumed it would still lead to the boy. Only it hadn't. They had become tentative friends. Nothing more. Nothing less. Maybe they were too damaged. He didn't want to know.  
At night she resumed her worn path between houses. Waking him. Forcing him to eat. Sitting in the dark, listening to the silence.

Until today.

The sun beat down and she turned her face upwards, soaking in the heat, eyes closed. Her dark hair shone, for once out of its customary braid, it fell in thick waves over her shoulders. Her black t-shirt stuck to her skin, damp with sweat, but she didn't seem to mind.

He let himself watch her, unbeknownst to her. She was no longer a child. Maybe she never had been one at all. A small smiled turned her lips upward, and he realized that she had finally found peace. She was finally safe. Had he finally done something right?

Foolishly, he reached out and brushed her hair aside, his rough fingers grazing her cheek. Her grey eyes found his, and he braced himself for the rebuke.

"I know, I know, sweetheart. Don't touch." He smirked, hoping she would laugh it off. Waiting for the sharp words. I'm not your sweetheart.

Only the words never came.

Her lips touched his, and through his stunned breath, the pain in his chest shifted, lessened. He stared at her as she sat back with a small smile.

"I've always been your sweetheart."


End file.
